
%^'.1ri ^'-^'Oi^ '3: 



cmm¥^B:S€M 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

®^p. - ©0pi|rtg^t !f u. 

Shelf. .Sii"! 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/buckeyelandbohennOOshad 



i^R 



/^v^^--%,^.f-<^ ^- 



PHOTO BY WEYRICH. 



BuckeyeLand 



AND 



Bohemia, 



— o — 



* * 



BY 



* Wm. Henry Taylor Shade. ^ 



* * 



* -x- 






HILLSBORO, OHIO. 

1895. 

THE LYLE PRINTING CO. 



f«;=:=> 



^nf^ 



COPYRIGHT 1895, BY THE AUTHOR. 



This volwine is printed in a limited edition of 
six hundred copies, of which this is 

■ ' No . 




Il2ra^.5>^ 




Cu ^ 



TO 

CHARLES H. COLLINS, 

LAWYER, POET, AUTHOR, 

TO 

WHOSE KINDLY ENCOURAGEMENT 

ITS 

EXISTENCE 

IS 

LARGELY OWING, 

THIS VOLUME 

IS 

RESPECTFULL Y DEDICA TED 

BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



INSTEAD OF A PREFACE. 



**Few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies 
always in the air and never touches the earth ; it is only once 
in many ages a genius appears whose words, like those on 
the Written Mountain, last forever; but still there are gome, 
as delightful, perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not 
stars over our head are at least flowers along our path, and 
whose sweetness of the moment we might gratefully inhale, 
without calling upon them for a brightness and durability be- 
yond their nature." — Lalla Rookh. 

Filled with the dreams that no fool's wealth can buy, 
Clad in our rags, fed on our crust of bread, 

We'll sing our songs, nor tell the reason why, 
Bless God for rhymes and journey toward the dead. 

— W. J. Henderson, 



BuckeyeLand and Bohemia. 



WHEN ROVE WUZ A PUP. 

Sence Rove wuz a pup 'pears like it hain't been 

Two minntes. Wlien Bill bruiig 'im home frnin Montrose 
A sneakin'r setter pup never wuz seen — 

All draggled an' wet, 'ith mud on his nose, 
Frufu diggin' fur muskrats down ther' by the crick, 
His tail 'tween his legs like he 'spected 'er kick — 
Remember how maw said she know'd he wuz sick 
When front o' the fireplace he curled hisself up — 
Ah, me, but the ciianges sence Rove wuz a pup ! 

When Rove wuz a pup ther' wuz leaves on the trees; 
Ther' wuz singin' o' birds an' hummin' o' bees; 
Ther' wuz larks in the medder and roses abloom — 
Right in through the winder an' over the room 
Somehow ther' seems wafted the fragrance o' hay ; 
The richness o' August, the perfume o' May; 
The sweetness o' love an' its gladness an' cheer 
When memory pictures that halcyon year — 
When, springlike, her treasury, bubble n up. 
Brings back that old summer when Rove wuz a pup ! 



10 

THE COUNTRY NEWSPAPER. 

The old country weekly — how dearly I love it! 

From crisp city daily I quick turn aside 
To read its quaint ''leader,'^ the he iding above it, 

A hoary-haired editor's joy and his pride ; 
Its columns of locals in which all the doings 

Of kinsman and neighbor so tersely are told ; 
The births, deaths and accidents, weddings and wooings; 

The sheriff's sad notice of lands to be sold ; 
Its crude correspondence; some villager's caper; 

Its tritely told stories of sorrow and joy — 
They all may be found in the country newspaper — 

The old country paper I read when a boy. 



WFIEN GRAN'PAP LIT HIS CORNCOB PIPE. 

When gran'pap lit his corncob pipe how quiet all things grew 

Within the semicircle as around the hearth we drew 

Our hick'ry-seated, home-made chairs and waited for the tale 

That always followed that event; not oft did gran'pap fail 

To fight again, and yet again, the wars of long ago ; 

To trail the Indian ; hunt the bear ; there in the back-log's glow 

He lived again his boyhood days. What memories, rich and 

ripe. 
Wake at the mention of the hour when gran'pap lit his pipe. 

For gran'pap was a pioneer; his honest, willing hand 

Had felled the trees and made a home within a new-found 

land. 
He had an endless stock of yarns— a million more or less — 
The history of his early life within a wilderness, 
And when sometimes he quite forgot and told some story twice 
No one objected ; no, nor when he'd chance to tell one thrice ; 



n 



For tales like his ne'er lose their charm — the stories of the 

type 
That gran 'pap used to te!l us as he smoked his corncob pipe. 

Oh, good old man, who long hath slept tliesleep that bringeth 

rest — 
A patriarch unto a tribe tliat e'er will call you blest — 
Could you come back and join the group around the roaring 

blaze 
And tell, as in the long ago, those legends of ihe days 
When strong with youth and hardy toil you trailed the forest 

through, 
How would that group, though changed with years, do honor 

unto you ! 
And trembling hands, 1 think, gran'pap, away warm tears 

would wipe 
As you'd draw your armchair to the fire and light your corn- 

cob pipe. 



ENCOURAGEMENT. 

What pilgrina oVr life's «tony way. 
Beset by sorrow and d«-8p^ir 
And grief that seems too great to bear 

Finds not the darkness turn to day 

And all his pathway fringed with bloom 
As, smiling on him through the gloom. 

Defying time, and tide and space, 

He sees a loving, hopeful face, 

With wealth of tawny tresses crc»wned 
And by love's fancy circled round 

With aureole as if divine — 

A face like thine, sw^eetheart, like thine ! 



12 



ESCAPE. 

Through the transom streams no light ; 
No noisy callers are there to-night; 
A flutter of crape upon the donr 
Warns them away from Forty- four. 

No songs are heard ; the blinds are down ; 

Lying at rest in her finest gown 

Is ''Marguerite.'^ The eyes of jet 

Are closed ; the smile is gone ; and yet 

Men there are who will never forget 

The wondrou-' witchery of a smile 

Such as a sorceress of the Nile 

Might envy, and, forgetting war 

A Koman lose an empire for — 

And those lustrous eyes (no other two 

Such eyes were known on *'the avenue") 

And the gloom-dark curls on the olive brow 

So still and cold and bloodless now — 

And the luscious lips — her fatal dower 

Were these — o'er men had magi(! power. 

Oh, who would have cared or dreamed or guessed 

That 'neath the laces upon her breast 

Was a broken heart that longed for rest — 

A w^oman's heart with its hopes and fears — 

That those beautiful eyes were the home of tears V 

And yet somebody remembers well 

When ''Marguerite" was simply Nell; 

When roses red and blossoms white — 

But why recall it now? To-night 

An erring girl, by all forgot 

Except by those who shared her lot - 

'^Ruby" and "Maude" and "Genevieve" 

And "Pearl" and "Hazel" — no others grieve— 



ESCAPE. 13 



111 the parlor dress she called her best 
Lies at rest. 

Throngh the transom streams no light ; 
No noisy callers are there to-night; 
A flutter of crape upon the door 
Warns them away from Forty-four. 



A PROTEST 



I'm gittin' most consarned tired o' seein' stair-step rhymes, 
And if the poets keep it up, I wisht they would sometimes 
Just change 'em round a little bit; now, would it be amiss, 
Instead o' havin' stair-step rhymes, 

To 

Run 

'Em 

Down 

Like 

This? 

[ offer the suggestion, seekin' neither blame nor praise ; 
And as the rule is dog-gone pore that doesn't work both ways, 
If that se<^ms incompaterble with true poetic bliss. 



0^ 

a. 
There's nothin' to prevent 'em runnin' P 

Of course, it's barely possible the stair-step style is best; 

Leastways, that it's appropriate must reely be confessed, 

For fortune doesn't always smile ; she sometime frowns, 
his verse ups 

like life poet's is of and 
And the full downs. 



14 



REGRET. 

The goldenrod and thistle 

Are bronzed and sered now ; 
Chill winds of autumn whistle 

'Twixt leafless vine and bough ; 
Sadly sweet September 

Lingereth o'er the earth ; 
Brightly the glowing ember 

Shines on the rural hearth ; 
The forest trees are turning 

From green to gold and red, 
And, parent branches spurning. 

Drift over the path I tread ; 
Floating upon the breeze 

A cloud of thistle down ; 
Wierdly rustle the trees 

And the cornfields ripe and brown. 

And my heart is sad with a great regret, 
My heart is sad and my lashes wet — 
'Tis Nature's requiem symphony 
For a summer that ne'er will return to me. 



REFUGE. 

Upon your breast, 
As drifting bark on billowy sea 

A crimson rose does rise and fall — 
A rose that well may envied be, 

Since sorrows and temptations all 
In vain their keen shafts aim at me 
When pillowed, swet^t, at true love's call, 
Upon your breast. 



15 
DADDYISM 

Though gran'pap rarely made remarks and never wuz no wag, 
He us^^d ter hev a savin' when he'd hear a feller brag 
'Bout his fambly an' conne-tions, an' a tt llin' who they wuz 
Like these codfish aristocrats aroun' hure ailus does — 
A savin' that 'twuz gospel truth as shore's you're born ; 
**Y(»u'll ofi'en find a nubbin on the finest stalk o' corn " 

He wuzn't much on cnssin' ; 'pear'd like he never swore 

'Less it wuz necessary; but a dozen times or more, 

When some young sprig without no sense deserved a mild 

rebuke 
Fur tellin' how his great gran'pap's wife's cousin wuz a dook, 
I've heerd him say : **Your ancesters wuz so-and-so, it's true ; 
But what folks now'days want ter know is, who the h — 1 are 

youV" 

In all these years that's past and gone I've saw a heap n' life — 
Its sunshine and its shadders, its peacefulness and strife — 
And when I see folks put on airs and stickin' up their yeers 
As though their blood is indigo, I want ter say : ''Who keers 
Who your gran'dad's relations wuz? Fur shore's you're bc-rn 
They've grow'd a runty nubbin on their fambly stalk of corn.'' 



THE HERMIT BEECH. 

Away from its fellows its boughs were spread 

By the brook in the meadow land, 
Where we would lie, in the days gone by, 

By balmiest breezes fanned, 
Watching the minnows dart and turn — 

Happier who than we ? 
Far from the wood it proudly stood, 

A patriarchal tree. 

We climbed 'mid its branches, drooping low, 



16 THE HERMIT BEECH. 

And swung 'neath its waving leaves, 
Where all day long, with cheerful song, 

The robin its coy nest weaves. 
'Tis one of childhood's pictures 

That ruin will never reach, 
And memory ever will fondly turn 

To the grand old hermit beech. 



THE OLD 8T0NE CHIMNEY. 

Gray guidestone pointing to the past. 
Grim monument to other years, 

Unmoved by winter's icy blast, 
Oblivious to summer's tears, 

I lean upon the garden fence 

And bare my head in reverence ! 

The stones that formed the homestead walls 

Are piled about in shapeless heaps 
'Neath which the timid lizard crawls 

And over which the spider creeps ; 
The ingleside, where grandsire smoked 

His pipe of peace, is hid by weeds; 
The garden path is densely choked 

With growth 'neath which the rabbit feeds. 
Where now the merry girls and boys 

That gathered 'round the ruddy blaze ? 
Where the ambitions, where the joys. 

That were their own in those old daysV 

Grim relic of the long dead past. 

Thou, too, wilt wear away at last ; 

Beneath the creeping ivy vine 

Which garlands green those walls of thine 

A sad inscription do I see, 

This one word— mutability. 



17 
ESTAJM.ISHmG A PRECEDENT 

The CasstowD fair wiiz simply great; fur miles and iiiiles 

around 
Ther' wuzn't left a single soul as didn't lu^ar the sound 
When number nine, by Doggett's band, woiit floatin' on the air? 
Fur everybody, most on earth, wuz at the Casstown fair. 

Old Kernal Reuben Green wuz judge and starter all in one, 
An' when he called the trottin' race you'd orter seen the fun ; 
For everybody know'd 'twould be an' inteiestin' race — 
A purse o' jest three hundred plunks lent int'rest to the case. 

The pigs an' sheep an' garden truck an' punkins wuz furgot ; 
The quarter stretch wuz crowded with the most excited lot 
0' people that I ever seen ; jest now, a-lookin' back, 
I seem to see them trotters comin' out ther' on the track. 

Ike Larkin entered Nancy Pranks, by Pollock, out o' Flirt- 
He thought she wuz the finest mare that ever pawed up dirt — 
An' bets wuz made at ten to one that if she didn't balk 
That race would jest be pie for her — she'd win it in a walk. 

Among the other entries made wuz one by Hiram Day, 
From Possum Trot, 'twuz Gin'erl Grant, an old, flea-bitten 

gray, 
That everybody pooh-poohed at an' said it wuz a sin 
To bring out such a poor old nag as stood no show to win. 

"They're off!" You'd ort a seen 'em go; the people yelled 

like mad ; 
I'll bet a more excitin' race Latony never had; 
That old flee-bitten Gin'erl Grant jest struck a mungrel gait 
An' kept the lead plumb through the heat— the others all 

wuz late. 

A gittin' past the flaggin' post, a-ceptin' Nancy Pranks- 
She come in second, blowin' hard an' sweatin' on the flanks; 



18 ESTABLISHING A PKECEDENT. 

"The gray boss wins," said Kerurtl Green ; said Ike, "You 

make m^^ sick ; 
The gray boss run— he didn't trot;' you'd orter heerd him 

kick 

Then Kernal Green got fiirhcin' mad; says be, "Don't talk 

to m^- ; 
It mav have been his hind legs run the hull durned way,'^ 

says he ; 
"But his foreleiTS kept trotun' like the very h — 1, I say 
His forelegs wins the money ; the decision's fur the gray !" 

Ike swore an' '^uss'd an' r'ared aroun' an' made an awful bluflf, 
But Kernal Green stuck to his word an' Hiram got the stuff, 
An' it has went on record that a boss can win the pot 
In a trottin' race with two good legs as don't furgit to trot. 



THE END OF THE SEASON. 

Now do we part to seek home and rest. 
Some to the orient, some to the West ; 
Some will to Gotham go and there 
Traverse the pave of the classic "square ;" 
Others will sail o'er the saline sea — 
Old Ohio will do for me ! 
Some, perchance, of our strolling band 
May meet no more till the last, last stand. 

Yet vi^ho can tell? 
So in cheerful grasp our hands we'll clasp 

As we say farewell. 



19 
THE ROAD P^ROM LONG AGO TO NOW. 

Where now my comrades of the day 

When 1, a schoolboy, knew not care — 
Companions of my childivsh play, 

With iiappy hearts and brown feet bare, 
Who shared the master's praise or wrath? 

All, all are gone. And yet, somehow, 
There recollections strew the path 

That leads from Long Ago to Now. 

^Vhat, \ears? It seems to me but weeks 

Sin<*e we enjoyed our boyish sports — 
Went swimming in the self-same creeks ; 

Together built and stormed snow forts ; 
Or sat together on the load 

That ever bless'd our scythe and plow — 
Their lonely graves but dot the road 

That leads from Long Ago to Now 

And there is one enshrined spot 

Along the patiiway from the past 
With tenderest recollections fraught 

That round them somber shadows cast. 
How warm her clasp that parting day ! 

How sweet the faintly whispered vow ! 
With flowers that memory strews the way 

That leads from Long Ago to Now. 



ANOTHER VIEW. 

A proverb says the rolling stone 
No coat of moss will gather; 

But vAhat of that? I freely owni 
That I, for one, would rather 

Just keep a-rolling, ever free — 

None of your moss-back life fc»r me, 



20 



A 8WEET, SAD STORY. 

One day, some thirty years ago, 
A fair youth leaned upon his hoe 

Between the rows of growing corn 
That glistened with the dews of morn ; 

The birds sang in the woodland near, 
Where crystal-bright a ])rook ran clear; 

And just beyond, not far away, 

The meadow waved its wealth of hay ; 

Red roses by the orchard fence, 
Where bushes grew &o tall and dense, 

A fragrance cast upon the air 

That drifted o'er the corn-field there. 

Althrough the mists had scarce begun 
To fade beneath the morning sun. 

The farmer boy in silence stood — 
His face bespoke no cheerful mood. 

'Twas but last night he'd told sweet Nell 
A tale she knew, indeed, full well ; 

He'll ne'er forget her eyes, so bright 
They shown that moonlit summer night. 

When at a neighbor's paring bee 
They strolled beneath a friendly tree ; 

And he had boldly asked her there 
To share his joys and sorrows where 

For year on year their folks had wrought, 
An unpretentious life their lot. 

Now, Nell, coquette-like, sad to say, 
Had never meant her answered ''nav." 



,© 



A SWEET, SAD STOriY. 21 

And that tells why or- this fail' morn 
Tom leaned upon his hoe forlorn. 

"There's naught for me to live for now," 
He said, and stroked his sunburned brow ; 

It may have been that hot tears fell 
For pretty, fickle, cruel Nell. 

His youthful heart was broken then 
(Such things occur with full-grown men.) 

''She'll see me Jie'er again," he said, 
"And when she hears that I am dead 

May she recall the night we parted 
She careless, cohl ; I broken-hearted." 

So when the sun had sunk away, 
And d immer grew the light of day, 

He passed the creaking farmhouse door, 
Whose threshold ne'er would see him more. 

A moment's pause to rest his eyes 

On pantry shelves sway-backed with pies, 

Then through the gate, past orchard wall 
O'er which in autuntn, the pippins fall ; 

Then down the road he took his way 
Nor stopp'd until the East grew gray. 



V 
At last I have him walking well 
Away from farmhouse home and Nell. 

Adown the road my lad has irone. 
The East grows krray with coming dawn 



22 



A SWEET, SAD STORY. 

But serious trouble fronts me now, 
And brings a frown unto my brow — 

'Tis this : must he be sent afar 
To bravely die in a bloody war, 

While reckless leading on the way 
To cannon's mouth in furious fray? 

Shall leaden missile tunnel through 
His heart and stain his coat of blue? 

And shall he die right where he falls 

His thoughts of Nell — not of cannon balls? 

Or, when his coat is old and torn, 
x\nd his army brokans badly worn, 

And he is huni^ry and sick with pain. 
Shall I have Nell nurse him to life a4.ain? 

Or shall I free him from war's alarms 
By lettiui^ him die in Nellie's arms? 

(Of course I could easily fix it in rhyme 
To have Nell arrive in the nick of time.) 

Or might he not in lands afar, 
Win fame and fortune in the war, 

And homeward come a General grand, 
With gold in pocket and sword in hand, 

To havoc play with heart of Nell, 
And how he saved the land to tell? 

Then wed Nell's rival — a hateful thing. 
Who neither could play, nor paint, nor sing? 
* «- ^ * ^ 4f es 

This is long enough now to bring me pelf, 
Sweet reader, just end it to suit yourself. 



23 



TWO TRUTHS. 

The mirrors glisten, the scene is gay, 
Bright the room as a summer day, 
Though all without is drear and chill 
And darkness hangs o'er vale nivl hill, 
And the patter of feet in ceaseless rush 
Is heard outside in the winter slush 

His hat is silk and his ulster long; 
He calls for a drink and hums a song; 
He fills his glass — and drains it, too, 
Just after saying: ''A toast to you, 
Oh, sparkling wine, so rich and rare, 
You make of the sot a millionaire !" 

A vagrant stands away but a pace, 

A haggard look on his bloated face. 

He hears; then, raising his glass up, so. 

Watching its sparkle come and go, 

He speaks : "And though he says it not. 

You make of the millionaire a sot !" 



WITHOUT THY SMILE. 

Without thy smile 
Full cloudy is the sunniest day ; 

Without thy smile 
The brightest skies are dull and gray ; 
The birds sing only sad refrains ; 
In balmiest night the starlight wanes 
And only darkest gloom remains. 

Without thy smile. 



24 



AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. 

'Tis Christmas eve ; long shadows fall 

As slowly in the roseate west 
rhe red sun sinks ; and over all 

There broods the calm of perfect rest. 
How sweetly peaceful all things seem ! 

And as the evening light grows low, 
I sit before the fire and dream 

Of Christmas eves of long ago. 

There was a springtime in my life 

When hope was strong and friendship true 
Now all is changed; the cruel knife 

Of sorrow cut them through and through. 
How sweet those bells ! I hear them yet 

A-ringing o'er the star-lit snow- 
Ah, somehow I caa not forget 

The Christmas eves of long ago ! 

Oh, why should not my tears downfall 

Since happiness a stranger waits 
To greet me — if, alas, at all — 

Beyond death's dark, mysterious gates? 
But till the fates at last decree 

That I must lie beneath the snow^ 
This day will memories bring to me 

Of Christmas eves of long ago. 



WILLIAM PROPOSES. 



There's a very old proverb which goes on to say 
That where there's a will there^s always a way ; 
Sweet maiden, with joy life's cup w^ould I fill — 
You show me the way and I'll furnish the Will. 



25 
AWAY OFF. 

^They're off! They're off !" Away they go— 
I wonder why my heart beats so ! 
I've got a cinch ; I've backed that bay 
For all that I <ould raise to-day. 
I bend my gaze across the course 
And note with what pernicious force 
A chestnut filly presses on — 
Plague take it — and my watch in pawn 
They're off! 

They're off! It really is a shame ; 
I've gone against a losing game ; 
The bay's not in the race at all, 
And with a thud my spirits fall — 
A dull, dull thud that leaves me dazed, 
Dead broke, dead sore and dead amazed. 
I thought that nag at ten to one 
Was finding money. Well, I'm done. 
''They're off!" I'll ne'er forget that cry, 
For^they were off, and so was I — 
Quite off. 



INGENUE. 

Here's a double health to you, 

Ingenue ; 
Raise to me your eyes of blue, 

Ingenue ; 
In them I can see reflected 
One who loves you. What, rejected? 
Well, it's just as I expected. 

Ingenue. 



26 

WHEN ME AND MIKE WUZ ON THE FORCE 

When me nnd Mike wnz on the force 
Things wuzn't like they are today, 

Though if they're better, now, or worse, 
Is reeiy more than L can say. 

The cop now boldly takes his drink ; 

W^e had to sneak in, with a wink ; 

But that WUZ years ago, of course, 

When me and Mikewuz on the force. 

They keep a pullin' folks now days 
To give the b lilers out a (*hance ; 
The modern copper knows what pays — 

He gits his rake-oftMn advance. 
If we'd a done such graftin' then 
We might a-broke into the pen ; 
We didn't get much from that source 
When me and Mike wuz on the force. 

Oiice in a while they make a bluff 

At pullin' o' the tager's tail, 
Which generly brings down the stuff — 

In fact, I never seen it fail 
And come to think — sence I recall — 
Things ain't so different after all 
From what they wuz when— well, of course. 
When me and Mike wuz on the force. 



OLD WHISKERS 

It happened in the police court some fifteen years ago — 
You recollect it, don't you, Mike? you ought ter, for I know 
That me and you wuz on the force and tramped the self-same 

beat. 
The night 1 pinched Old Whiskers in that joint on Dearborn 

street. 



OLD WHISKERS. Zl 

Old whiskers wuz a luuiiilebs cuss tluit everybody kiiow'd ; 
He used ter ped(ile shoestrings wlien he didu't iiave a lo id ; 
His weakness, as he freely owned, wuz callin' fur '^tlie same,"' 
And generly the limit wuz marked dovvn ferninst his name. 

One day he got his reg'lar dose and fell back inter line — 
He muster liKed the Bridt^well, tur he n«ver paid a fine- 
When for'ard stepped a little gal, not over fifteen years, 
He eves all red from cryin' and her checks still wet with tears. 

She had no stuff to pay her fine ; and so she took lier plnce 
By Whiskers in the Bridewell gang, tears rollin' down her face, 
When Pat O'Keefe, wfio stood near me, give me a suddint 

nudge 
And pointed at Old Whiskers walkin' up toward the Judge. 

The durned old chap reached down inside his ragged, greasy 

vest 
And drawed a greasy wallet out— he did, as I'll be blest! — 
xAnd takin' out a greasy bill he givc' a careless jerk 
And t'revv it down — to pay her fine — before the s^arin' clerk. 

''She's young, pore gal," Old Whiskers said; then tell back 

iiiter ranks 
Before the cr>in', sobbin' gal had time ter mention dianks, 
And added, in a whisper like, that ended in a moan ; 
''I used ter have a little gal, just like her, o' my own." 

Old Whiskers died out there that trip, a sentence on his head. 
And not a soul in all the world to care that he i\'uz dead ; 
But I know lots o' goody-goods, 'way up in text and creed, 
Who might a learnt a lesson from that one unselfish deed. 



28 



THE MOSS THAT COULDN'T LOSE. 

He said he'd take a sherry flip 

And added that he had a tip 

Straight from the stables that was good 

As winter wheat; and that he would 

Let me in on the deal ''The news,'' 

Said he, ''is right; that hoss can't lose." 

'' How can he lose ? A fool can see 
That he will win hands down," says he. 
"Why, such another leadpipe play 
Won't come along for many a day. 
Just stick a pin there ; them's my views ; 
I got it straight — that hoss canH lose." 

Why longer make the painful taleV 
I played the nag that couid not fail 
To come in first. Oh, what a fix ! 
He wasn't even one, two, six. 
Hereafter, when I bet, I'll choose 
A horse that stands a show to lose. 



ON THE STAGE AND OFF. 

After the play 

The villain wept 
Beside a couch where an infant lay — 
(The villain who drove a woman wild. 
Who killed a father and stole a child) 
Wept and watched till dawn's dull grav 
Fled before the light of day, 
Then knelt beside that couch to pray. 

This ere he slept, 

iVfter the play. 



29 



FATE 

The fast express goes whirling by 

The siding where the way freight stands 
Lazily clouding the suninaer sky 

With its smoke. With grimy hands 
I wipe the sweat from my sun-tanned face, 

Wondering, murmuring, " Is there use 
In livinjj', if for life my place 

Must be upon a red caboose?" 

She is the president's daughter — fair, 

Fawn-like and faultless as e'er was known ; 
Mines of gold in her wavy hair; 

Cheeks like roses, May-tin, e blown. 
Only a glimpse — the fast express 

Disappears through the canyon gate — 
She is the president's daughter — yes, 

I am the brakeman on the freight. 

Such is the way of life, I guess — 

Such is life and such is fate — 
She rides by on the fast express — 

1 am the brakeman on the freight. 
The fast express to the eastward goes — 
I to the west with my work and woes. 



NOT A GOOD SADDLE HORSE. 

On reflection, 
I think I'd like a canter through the park 
The idea makes me happy as a lark — 
I would stride my prancing bay, 
And upon him ride away 
Did I have one — well-a-day ! 
But wdiat fun in riding, pray, 

On reflection? 



30 



THE HACKWARD LOOK. 

A sulleD, sunless stretch of sky ; 

A church yard gray in eveniDg gioaiii ; 
A steeple 'round which swallows fly ; 

A pasture o'er wliich cattle roam ; 
A group of gnarled forest treer^ ; 

A })air of fragrant, dipping pines; 
A breath of autumn stirnng these ; 

A rustic fence u'er-grown with vines; 
A nioss-vvrapt gravestone here and there; 

A nook where ehier busht s wave; 
A liiliock, sodiess, brown and bare— 

A sodless, urnless, new-made grave. 

Beyond all these life's vistas slope 

Hack, back to childliood's x\ ready, 
Where sorrow captive was of hope 

And otdy joy was yet to be; 
Where, dreaming of the bye-and-bye 

No vision came that was not bright — 
A backward glance : A sunless sky ; 

A sodless grave. Now conaes the night, 



SHOOTING THE CHUTES. 

We were shooting the chutes — and Polly was pretty, 
Not fairer the flowers that blow on the lea ; 

With a face that might readily call forth a ditty 
And hair like a sunset tln^own back from the sea. 

Her eyes and her lips, they were visions of glory ; 

Her voice seemed an echo of Pandean flutes; 
And Polly — but hold, I'm astray from my story — 

T believe I remarked we were shooting the chutes. 



SHOOTING THE CHUTES. 31 

We were shooting the chutes ; the band was a-phiying ; 

The inyrin.l lights (hmced in faticiful ways; 
The snmnier-night air was reminder of Maying, 

'Mid wihiwood and meadoA^ in long agone days; 

And Polly was pretty — ifideed, I am willing 
To say I was proud as a boy with new boots, 

And finish nay story? Of course ; well, 'twas thrilling — 
What liappened the night we were shooting the chutes. 

We were shooting the chutes; like flashes of lightning 
We sped down the incline, while close by my side 

Sat Polly — and, well, it was really fright'ning, 
So Polly clung to me. Forgetting her pride 

She threw her arms 'round me. I see you have guess'd it — 

Love's army enlisted a pair of recruits ; 
My arm 'round her waist, right bravely I press'd it — 

Oh, grand is the pastime cali'd shooting the chutes ! 



MOODS. 



What's the use? 
I am, oh, so tired of tryinir. 

What's the use 
Of struggling on when dying 
Would leave no more ties to sever 
And bring peace and rest forever — 
Dry the tears that vain endeavor 
Brings to eyes full tii-ed of weeping- 
Eyes that only close in sleeping 
But to open on the morrow 
On another day of sorrow, 
No more links to be thus broken 



32 MOODS. 

As my heart is; nor words spoken 
To give pain — no more regretting — 
No more pining — no more fretting — 
No more dearth of longed-for petting- 
No more penance of forgetting — 
What's the use V 

II. 

What's the use 
Of sorrowing and sighing? 

What's the use 
Of giving up? Keep tryintr — 
Still is left some glint of dadness 
To offset life's share of sadness, 
Love's regret and passion's madness. 
Though no gfentle hand now blesses 
As of yore with its caresses, 
Worry not. Time swiftly stealing 
Bv us, graciously is dealing 
Glad content, the heart-sick healing. 
Try again, new courage taking — 
Dawn, and not your heart, is breaking. 
Even now doth radiant morning 
Gild as gold the gray, adorning 
Like a queen the orient, scorning 
Gloom. With wonted iridescence 
Shines the sun. With effervescence, 
As of yore, life's wine will bubble. 
Bringing sweet surcease of trouble. 
There is lots of use in living — 
In forgetting — in forgiving — 

Lots of use. 



33 
BELL OF THE KEARSARGE. 

(), bell of tlio Kearsarge, your echoing clangor 

Will still find it^ wa\ s to the ends of the world 
Where place can be found tor oar pennant to hang, or 

Our beauteous star-jevvel-d flag be unfurled. 
No foeman could silence you; lead was as laughter — 

You sarig back defiance in resonant bars; 
Your tongue will yet tell, in the endless hereafter, 

The pluck and the prowess oi Uncle Sam's tars. 

On Roncador reef the deck is decaying 

That brave Yankee sailors so gallantly manned; 
With masts and with rigging' the blue waves are playing; 

The keel is a ruin on far desert strand ; 
But, bell of the Kearsarge, your echoing clangor 

W ill still find its way to tlie ends of the world 
Where place can be found for our pennant to hang, or 

The folds of "Old Glorv" were ever unfurled. 



THE RANCHER'S DAUGHTER. 

When over the mesa hang clouds of night, 

And snow in the corral is drifting wdiite, 

Inside these wills the fire burns bright, 

And the rancher's daughter sits in its light — 

What matters though outside hang clouds of night? 

The rancher's daughter is tall and fair — 

As the rose her cheek, as yold her hair — 

xAnd the blaze in the corner, with cackle and flare, 

Is cold compared with the warm heart there — 

And the rancher's daughter is tall and fair. 

The rancher's daughter is seventeen 
Or thereabouts ; and as sweet— I mean 



84 THE rancper's daughter 

To say she's pnrty as any queen — 

Purtier gal I've never seen — 

And the rancher's daughter is seventeen. 

The rancher's daughter is dear to me ; 
And, though my roujj^hness is plain to see, 
' I — whoa! Gosh durn it, friend, T be 
Talkin' too much ; but some day we 
Are goin' to hitch, for she's dear to me. 



AFTER THIRTY YEARS. 

A low grassv mound ; a moss-covered stone ; 
A garhind exposing the legend : ''Unknown." 

Long years hath the angel of peace hovered low 

From hills of the northland o'er-covered with snow 

To plains of the southland o'er-laden with bloom, 

Where fairest of flowers grow wild o'er his tomb. 

Forgotten are hatred and bitterness now, 

For yesterday's saber to-day is a plow ; 

The earthworks are leveled ; aye, fiber and grain 

Have grown, lo, these years, where a dark crimson stain 

Marked the spot where his life blood was given away 

In the fore of the fight — in the front of the fray ; 

The deep lines by wheels of artillery traced 

In b^ood-softened soil long since are effaced; 

And footprints that enemies left on the mold 

Are lost 'neath the harvest field's surfeit of gold ; 

While fragrances born of the beauteous bloom 

Blow soft as an incense above his proud tomb. 

A low grassy mound ; a moss-covered stone ; 
A garland exposing the legend : "Unknown." 



McCLELLAN'S FAREWELL. 



• 



THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, IN NOVEMBER, 1802. 

Along the army's (iravvn up front 

McOlellan rides to bid adieu; 
Of deep emotion not a sign 

Betrays the heart beneath the bhie. 
His aides are L'aHoping beside — 

One of the vvorki's historic groups — 
Along the lii-e they quickly ride, 

Leave-taking of the gallant troops. 

As past the lines they proudly dash 

The troopers see them with a sigh. 
Thnir glittering blades a»)d bayonets flash 

Salutes as he and staff ride bv. 
He does not see a tattered sheet 

That flutters in the autumn breeze; 
He passes by on charger fleet — 

But — hold the battle flag he sees. 

Now, quickly wheeling, l)ack they go; 

They halt before the flag; and there 
He doffs his cap before it low, 

While cheer on cheer breaks on the air — 
Then, rides away — the colors flap — 



And to this day his soldiers tell 
How^ brave McClellan doffed his cap 
The day he bade his troops farewell 



36 



IN THE APACHE COUNTRY. 

« 

Sand HFid sage brush ; beyond, the mountain 

Outlined clear 'gainst the western sky ; 
Sand and cactus; beyond, the mountain 

Reachi!ig unto tiie heavens high ; 
Over the mesa a pathway winding; 

Dim in the sand a 'graven trail ; 
Molten the sun ; the dust is bliadiuif ; 

Lost o'er the echoless wastes a wail. 

Under a sage- bush a trooper lying — 

Under a snge-clump, .^ickly green ; 
Low on the sand a troo]>er dying— 

Pierc'd his breast by a missile keen ; 
Saiid and cactus ; beyond, the mountain ; 

Echoless wastes ; a pray'r ; a sigh ; 
Sand and sagebrush ; beyond, the mountain 

Outlined white 'gainst the pale, blue sky. 



TEXAN AUTUMN. 

PASTORAL. 

A warm sun beating on a sandy plain ; 

A mock -bird singing in the chapparal ; 
A mesquite grove, whence, o'er and o'er again, 

An answering call; 

Tufts of brown grass, rustling dryly ; 

Wild prairie flowers, fragrant, fair ; 
(Each at a blushing sweetheart nodding slyly), 

Scenting the air ; 

On yon gray knoll with naught to dread, 
A rabbit in a grass-thatched nest; 

A feeding herd, with lazy aimless tread ; 
The wind at rest ; 



TEXAN AUTUMN. 37 

A flock of noisy blackbirds ; aphiintive soiiir, 

Sad, flute-like aud ol love, 
In boundless space ethereal lonjjj — 

A cooing dove ; 

Here and there a cruel cactus growing ; 

Leaves red and golden, tinting scatter'd ti-ecs ; 
Adown the vale a tep»id streamlt-t flowing — 

The cowboy's these ! 



A SOISTG OF BOHEMIA 

0, rose of Cathay^ how sweet your perfume ! 

Your dew-jeweled petals how beauteously rare ! 
How rich the deep blush that lives in your bloom, 

As proudly you nod in the warm summer air! 
A dream of enchantment you bend o'er my way — 
Beholding, I covet you, rose of Cathay. 

0, beautiful emblem of passion, I fain 

Would grasp you, unheeding the thorns and the pain ; 

Beside you Bohemia's pine sprig looks cold 

As dull, beaten bronze beside glittering gold 

But alas for your splendor, proud rose, you will die ; 

In dust of the pathway, their fragrance all fled, 
Neglected, forgotten, your red leaves will lie 

To be spurned, with the dust, 'neath the gardener's tread 
Be twig from the pinelands my emblem alway — 
To fleeting your charms are, frail rose of Cathay. 



38 

BY YOUR COUCH LAST NIGHT. 

As 1 knelt by your couch last night, my pet — 

By your couch as you slept 'neath the low, dim liuht- 
You breathed and your bosom heaved ; and yet 

So pale your cht^ek and your brow so white 
That r paused a moment and bent above 

Your sweet, fair form with an awful dread; 
Then 1 kissed your lips as you slept, my love, 

And thanked the gods you were not dead. 
For there came to my heart a sudden pain 

With thoughts of the bitter tears I'd weep 
When they might be useless tears. Refrain 

Then I could not; and from your sleep 
I woke you to know that you lived, my own; 

To kiss again the soft red lif)S 
Whose nectared sweets are mine alone — 

(Ah, I clung as the bee which honey sips 
From rich red rose and clover bloom ; 

I held you close to my earnest heart 
And saw^ your smile dispel the gloom 

And all forebodings bid depart) 
To know that I did not dumbly gaze 

On a lifeless form supine and white 
A-doomed to remember these happier days 

And their honeyed wealth of love's delight. 
How warm your cheek and your clasp, my pet! 

And the pain in my heart j^ave way to joy 
When I knew that you lived and were mine. Regret 

May be to the gold of my life alloy , 
But not that I ever have turned from you — 

That I've ever forgotten your arms so white 
And again I swore to be ever true 

As I knelt by your couch, my own, last night. 



39 



ROSIN A V0KK8 

We loved you well, Rosin. i Yokes ; 
The rare perfection of your art, 
The rarer goodness of your heart, 
Endeared you to us lon^ ago — 
W^e loved you well and told you so 
We'll not forget your cheery face ; 
Your wavy curls ; your winsome yjrace ; 
Your singing of ^"Js 'art w«s true 
To Poll ;" and with the weeping dew 
That irently falls upon your grave 
Our tears will fall. The ocean wave 
May roll between your land and ours, 
But what of that? Affections flowers 
We sadly, reverently lay 
Upon your new-made grave to-day ; 

And deep, sincere emotion chokes 
Our voices as we speak your name — 
''AH speak to praise you, none to blame'' 

We loved you w^ll, Rosina Yokes. 



HEARD IN HEAYEN. 

For dreary months she had patiently lain 
A suflerer on the couch of pain. 
The weary, shorten'd breaths came fast, 
Each thought by watchers to be the last. 

Patient the sufferer lying low, 
Struggling to live, yet longing to go. 
A dear voice, destined to speak no more, 
Only requested: ''Open the door." 

But waiting angels heard the prayer 
In heaven ; for it was wafted there. 



40 HEAKD IN HEAVEN. 

And the beautifal gates were open'd wide 
That she might rest on the other side. 

When w^e hav^e done with this vale of tears ; 
When we have finished its lonely years ; 
When we depart for the unknown shore, 
May angels stand ready to open the door. 



FAITH. 

The pathway from yon garden gate 

Leads straightway into paradise. 
vSmile not ; for whn can fathom fate 

Or see the truth with faithless eyesV 
But, that my words are true I wot ; 

Its joys I've tasted o'er and o'er — 
You only see a rustic cot 

Upon a bleak and wind-swept shore. 

Beyond that gate (it seems to you) 

The cold snow lies in cheerless drifts ; 
Look as you may, no rays break through 

The clouds to light their murky rifts ; 
You ran not see the flowers that bloom — 

That mock the wind and scorn the snow 
That smile at sorrow, laugh at gloom, 

And put to flight despair and w^oe. 

Oh, infidel, scorn not the truth — 

For, wondrous far beyond belief 
Love's miracdt's e'er fleeting youth 

Is borne away by Time, the thief! 
So do not laugh and jibe, I pray — 

For who, indeed, can fathom fate? 
Ah, paradise is mine, I say, 

'Tis just beyond that garden gate ! 



41 



A MEMORY. 

As twilight fades and darkness comes 

To pall the sinking, dying day. 
Doth something come to seek me out 
Amid the gloaming's somber gray ; 
Though winds of summer gently blow, 
Or though the earth be wrapt in snow, 
At morn, noon, eve, where'er I go, 
Cometh a memory 

The roaring grate may blaze and burn, 

Its roseate glow be warm and bright ; 
But day on day, with each return, 

And eve on eve, with sunbeams' flight, 
Recalls, as though a whispered tale. 
Eyes filled with tears and sweet lips pale, 
That are — alas ! that hearts are frail ! — 
Only a memory. 



THE FEMALE COMPOSITOR. 

To be a very swift typesetter 
Was Mary Ellen's one desire, 

And soon the foreman said that better 
Work than hers none could require. 

She did not think herself a joker, 
And peddle painful puns around ; 

She did not learn to be a smoker 
Or chew tobacco by the pound. 

Sweet and prim, I'd have you know it, 
Said she, as she tossed her locks : 

''Satan, take this slug and throw it 
Into yonder sheol box " 



42 



ENCHANTED. 

Heside you, 
Earth a realm elysian seems ; 

Beside you, 
Fairies whisper rosiest dreams ; 
Strangely sweet enchantment lies 
In the azure of your eyes ; 
Pleasure lives and sorrow dies 

Beside you. 

Beside you, 
Cares and troubles disappear ; 

Beside you, 
Songs of paradise I hear. 
Naught to me were loss or gain, 
Naught w^ere sunshine, naught were rain, 
Could I ever more remain 

Beside you. 



HOPE'S MESSAGE. 

'Mid the eternal snows 
That hood the mighty mountains of the West, 

Which grim and ghostlike pierce the wintry air, 
I wandered aimlessly, with troubled breast, 
Craving oblivion, and the dreamless rest 
That seemeth given only to the dead. 
When pinions rustled, and Hope, beside me, said 
That thou wert mine ; and blest 
Not more with warmth the tropic plain. 

Where blossom-laden breezes blow. 
Or chimner corner where doth rural swain 

Grow ruddy in a roaring wood fire's glow, 
Than I, alone upon the mountain there, 
'Mid the eternal snows. 



43 
CASPAR COLLINS. 

Far out toward the border, where the Platte's dull \vatei\s flow, 
And o'er the broad, sun-swept savannahs prairie flowers grow ; 
And where the winds in wailing sighs still sound his funeral 

knell, 
There is a spot ol" sacred earth where Caspar Collins fell. 

'Twas in the old Eleventh that young Caspar wore his straps, 
x\nd in those weary western wilds he dreamed of fame ; per- 
haps 
Of coming days of blessed peace, when he might cease to roam, 
And meet again the lov'd ones in the old Ohio home. 

A braver soldier never lived ; no braver fired a shot, 

Or better bore the duties hard that fell unto his lot; 

No duty was too hard for him when his it was to do — 

A more heroic soldier's blood ne'er stain'd its country's blue. 

'Twas in July in '65, a scorching summer day. 
His scouting party sought the fort. Young Caspar led the way 
Along the cheerless prairie trail until his small command 
Exhausted reached the grim stockade, theji rested on the sand. 

The Cheyennes sv\ armed the prairie then; one grew^ behind 

ea(^h stone, 
And Carnage o'er that region reigned, upon his reeking throne. 
The troops were few and sore-besieged^ their red foes none 

too few. 
And death seemed grimly grasping for the little band in blue. 

A long, slow, white-topped wagon-train was yet upon the 

plain ; 
To succor it seem'd but to fall beneath the arrows' rain, 
When spake a young lieutenant : "Colonel, shall those men 

die. 
And we — within their very sight — to save them never try V" 



44 CASPAR COLLINS. 

With blanched face the vet'raii turn'd. Far o'er the parched 

plain 
x41J circled round by ^^avage, the teamsters were. "In vain," 
The Colonel said, "'twould surely be to try to aid them there, 
And from my little, v^eaKen'd force no troops have I to spare." 

*'l can not see them perish thus," th«^ young man answered 

ttien ; 
Give me but twenty volunteers and I will save those men." 
His (hieftain sadly shook his head, and said: "Take my 

men V No ! 
Who goes will ne'er return alive from yon relentless foe." 

"Your men are fresh," young Caspar said ; "but if ihey don't 

then I 
And my poor, tired Eleventh boy to save that train will tjy. 
Attention! Mount !" — they waited not ; the brazen bugle rang ; 
Upon their tired and goaded steeds the fearless troopers 

sprang. 

The pond'rous gates swung open wide; the brave men pass- 
ed without 

And onward but to death and fame, with many a ringing 
shout. 

Once driven back, again they rode to certain death the way. 

A charge more grand was never made than that led forth that 
day. 

Ko armor'd knight of ancient time did fiercer fighting do 
Than that bold boy of Buckeyeland in braidless blouse of blue ; 
'Twixt sword and shot with savatre blood the scorched sands 

ran red 
E'er gallant Caspar Collins 'mid the prairie grass lay dead 

He died on duty's altar as die the true and brave ; 
His little band ne'er liv'd to greet those whom they fought to 
save 



CASPAR COLLINS. 45 

Tlie record of a hero's death and charge most nobly grand, 
On liistorv's scroll must be inscribed to that immortal band. 



Out where the grim Cordilleras raise many a snowy peak, 
Once, with a voice all tremulous, an old scout ceased to speak ; 
And o'er his bronz'd fact^ stole a si^di methinks I 3et can see 
As he finish'd. It was all too true, the tale he told to me. 

Far out toward the border where the Platte's dull water flow, 
And o'er the prairies' vast expanse do sweet wild flow 'rs grow, 
The wandering winds yet wierdly chant a hero's funeral knell, 
Above the hallow'd, sacred spot where Caspar Collins fell. 



HAUNTED. 

You hear me laugh and eee me smile 

And think you that never a care I know, 
But my life is as cold and dull the while 

As winter's dress of ice and snow. 
My mind is not with the laughing throng, 

VI y thoughts are leairue on league away ; 
On Time's slow tide I float along 

Through sleepless night and weary day. 
For I am haunted. 

A ghost? Ah, no! Ghosts see I none, 

And goblins would be a relief, indeed, 
For there isn't one of 'em under the sun 

To which I would uay the slightest heed 
Spirits I scorn — they're as naught to me — 

But I'd never envy the gayest rich ; 
Could I, alas, forget that she 

Is such a winsome little witch 
Bv whom I'm haunted. 



46 

AT EVENTIDE. 

Awa}^ 

Down 

Low 

The winter sun is sinking 
And leaving me as lonely as a fellow well can be ; 
All my blesvsings quite forgetting I am fretting for a petting, 

Such as in those happy evenings you bestc-wed on me ; 
There is Vvinking, there is blinking, when your lover gets to 
thinking 
Of a darling little sweetheart who is many miles away ; 
And he misses most the blisses of your honeyed, loving kisses, 
When the radiant queen of evening greets the drowsy king 
of day — 
When the spirit of the breezes seizes heartstrings as it pleases, 

Af^.d trums a love-lorn melody of long, long ago — 
Oh ! I'm weary, life is dreary, and 1 long so for you, dearie. 
When the winter sun is sinking 

Away 

Down 

Low. 



THE ECHO. 



The sailor lad sings a merry lay — 

A merry lay he sings — 
A song of a cottage for away ; 
A song of a coming happy day, 

And many other things ; 
But the burthen of his sonsr so gay — 

Of the song he gaily sings — 
Is '*The sailor lad he loves a lass," 
And answers an echo : *^Alas! alas!" 



47 
IN A PAVVNSFIOP. 

[Medals and decorations won in the Crimean campaign by 
a member of the famous Light brigade were recently sold by 
a New York pawnbroker, who had for years held them as 
pledges for money loaned. — Daily Paper.] 

Mute relic of valor, o'l-rdriven with dust- 
Pledged here for a pittance that purchased a crust — 
Corrosion slow gnawing your surface of bronze, 
As sorrow, a-mocking his meek orisons, 
Gnawed into his breast in the long agone past. 
And fed on his heart till 'twas broken at last. 
Oh, can you remember how proudly you hung 
On that breast when your hero was handsome and young— 
In charge and in bivouac his heart's only shield, 
And proof of his prowess on many a field ? 

Oh, can you forget how, when bright on his breast, 
A cheek was press'd to youV Ah, sweet was the rest 
A maiden found there w^hen, his campaigning o'er, 
A valiant young Briton returned to the shore 
Of his childhood and love ! How holy the tear 
With which she anointed you ! Many a year 
Has pass'd since that season of hallowed joy 
When the lassie he loved met a bold soldier boy 
And clung to him close, while a fervent love kiss 
Translated them both to a heaven of bliss. 

'Twixt that and the pawnshop — alas, could you tell 
Your story of sorrow 'twould surely compel 
A tear for your fate. A tale would I hear 
Of a gallant old soldier who never knew fear, 
Neglected and hungry, vain pleading for bread — 
A wrinkled old veteran, friendless— and dead. 



48 



''WHEN OTHER LIPS." 

"When other lips and other hearts, '^ 

A little maiden sweetly sings, 
And through the. stately manor halls 

The childish voice in echo rings. 
The touch that wakes the slumb'ring chords 

Within the old piano there 
Is gentle as the love-lorn words 

That wed so well the plaintive air. 

Sing on, sweet maid ! Thy tender theme 

Finds ready echo in my breast — 
A fitting adjunct to the dream 

In which with truest love I'm blest. 
When hearts that love are leal and true 

And beat to rythm of constancy, 
What harm could one sad ballad do. 

Though sung through all eternity? 

l'envoi. 

What harm, indeed ! Ah, useless tear 
That glistens for the days of old, 

Melt quick away. Full many a year 
The other lips their tales have told ! 



49 



"I'M SORRY YOU'RE GOING AWAY " 

"I'm sorry you're going away," she s lid. 
Her voice was lo^v and she hun-r her head, 
While a thrill in my heart bade me beware 
The danger I knew to be lurking there 
But where is the man who warning heeds 
In such a case till his poor heart bleeds? 
Who is there who does not underrate 
The arrow of Cupid until to late? 
Her brown eyes fell and her cheeks grew red ; 
"I'm sorry you're going away," she said. 

Oh, years that cruelly intervene 

The present and that hour between, 

Put me again wh^re I stood that night — 

Let me clasp her hand ; let the soft firelight 

Glow on her cheek and her brow so fair ; 

Let her lean on my heart ; let me stroke her hair ; 

Let me kiss herlips as I kissed them then, 

Over and over, and yet again, 

And she should never have cause to say 

To me: ''I'm sorry you're going awav." 



CONFIDENCE. 

When I am far away 

I shall not fear ; 
Though lonely night and day 

Never a tear ; 
Midnight chime and morning dew, 
Noonday sun and ocean's blue 
Speak good words to me of you 

When I am far away. 



50 



VULNERABILITY. 

The riveted steel ot his armor shone bright 
Ln the sunlight of morn, as a gallant young knight 
Rode forth to the crusades, his plumes waving white 
O'er the Saxon-light curls of his helmetted brow, 
And he laughed as he said: ''Who harmeth me now 
Must needs be a god " And he vowed him this vow : 
"Whose lance my prevail 'gainst this breastplate of steel 
His slave will I be; before him will kneel 
And serve him forever in woe and in weal.'' 

In fiercely fought combat full many a blow 
That breastplate withstood, and its silvery glow 
Paled not 'neath the sunlight, while freely did flow 
The blood of the Mussulman. Many a lay 
He sang to his armor: "You shield me alway 
From Saracen lance ; no arrow, 1 say, 
Can pierce you and bury its barbs in my heart," 
All vainly he rekconed ; too late a keen smart 
Found place in his bosom with (,'upid's swift dart. 

But tru^^ to his promise, the warrior brave, 

Knelt low to Love's archer, thus speaking; "I crave 

The precious permission to be but thy slave, 

Your arrow hath riven my breastplate of steel, 

And true to my promise before you I kneel," 

xlnd Love he served ever in woe as in weal. 



51 



MY ROUTE-BOOK. 

In my o:rip-snck I've a treasure 

Stovv'd mid other jewels there 
That I look at when I've leisure, 

And it drives away my care. 
As my thread of yarn unravels 

YouMl discover that it is 
But a record of my travels 

Since I went "into the biz." 

Think the faces T remember! 

Ah, each memory it recalls 
Flashes up like soft fann'd ember — 

Lon^ night runs — hotels — and halls ! — 
This I leave future ages 

(I have nothing else to leave) — 
Hut, let's glance into its pages; 

(It were childish here to grieve.) 

This is where I joined one ''party ;" 

This shows where it "busted up ;" 
This, where Mam'selle Moriarty 

Lost her blooded poodle pup ; 
Here I "caught onto" the minstrels; 

Jay ville — where I made a hit ; 
Here I licked a ''nigger singer;" 

Here he licked me ; — here I quit. 

Thus for hours can I look throught it — 

Thus for hours its pages scan ; 
And, although I shouldn't do it 

Almost cry — although a man. 
Yes, old route-book, you're a treasure, 

Others can't your value tell. 
Oftentimes you bring me pleasure ; 

Sometimes pain — alas! as well. 



52 MY ROUTE-BOOK. 

Years and years we've been together 
Through life's fair and stormy weather. 

And while yet I quaff lifers cup 
I will love and keep you whether 
Time falls heavy or hs feather 

'Till the final call: ''All up !" 



VALENTINE. 



Love's festal day 1 fondly hail, 

O, sweetheart mine, with youthful glee ! 
'Tis then in Fancy's barge I sail 

Adown Life's stream, fair one, with thee. 
The winged years have come and flown 

And mingled sorrow oft with mirth; 
And yet my love no change has known — 
I live for thee, sweetheart, alone. 
And on this day 
I fain would pay 

My modest tribute to thy worth. 

Too fair art thou for verses ready-made 
And in the windows of the shops display'd ; 
Their hearts and cupids are imaginary — 
So yellow, red or blue, and common, very. 

And, since unfit such homage for thy shrine, 
I thought to send a real heart with mine. 

But vain the wish, dear love Why, wouldst thou 
know ? 

I had but one. 
And now send none. 
Because I gave it thee long years ago? 



53 

UNDER THE OLD FLAG. 

fSUGGESTED BY A PICTUKE OF THE SAME TITLE.] 

Under the dear old flag once more — 

Under the starry flag 
That has waved o^er the Nation's army 

From Lookout's cloud-wrapt crag. 
Ah ! Tears must start as I look at it; 

What memories it recalls — 
That sheet of bunting torn with shot 

And shells and cannon balls 

Under the dear old flag again, 

With its crimson bars and white, 
And stars that gleam in an azure sky 

So gloriously bright. 

Under the same old flag again, 

Proudly my bosom swells ; 
T'was under that flag once long ago 

That we first heard victory's bells ; 
Begrimmed with dust and powder stains — 

A soiled and tattered rag — 
'Twas at the front of every fray, 

Our loved and honored flag. 

Under the dear old flag again 

That has waved from Lookout's crag, 
And when I must go 'twould be sweet to die, 
Under the same old flag. 



54 



THE LAST LINES. 

Upon ray pen the readj^ ink 

At least a dozen times has dried, 
And to commence that note I think 

As many times I've vainly tried. 
I've ruined many a snowy page, 

Yet can not scrawl the words I^d like ; 
I've sat and studied, now, an ao:e — 

I guess my brains are on a strike. 

But "if at first you don't succeed," 

My thumb-worn schoolbook used to say, 
"Try, try again." I really need 

Just such advice as that today. 
So here it ^oes; I'll see if she 

Can snub me ail the time ; I'll dare 
To write and say she can't — that's me ! — 

And let her go — I will 80 there ! 

I've written : "These will be the last 

Lines I shall ever pen for you, 
Thc'Ugh I shall ne'er forget the past 

Sweet days I thought your heart so true. 
The weary years will come and go 

And to forget you 1 will try. 
I've vowed to never see you ; so 

Those lines will be my last. Goodb\e." 

And now to send it. Well, I'm half 

Afraid at last to let it i:0. 
I fancy now I here her laugh 

At what I've said — she'll laugh I know ; 
Or will a quiver come to play 

Upon those lips so cherry red? 
And could her smiles be chased away 

By anything that I have said V 



THE LAST LINES. 55 

Will those dark eyes, so angel bright 

(That once to me were, oh, so dear!). 
Be, as are mine now, as I write, 

Dimmed with a bitter, scalding tear? 
Will she, as 1 do, choke a sob? 

Indeed, I'd give a world to know — 
And would her pretty temples throb 

Thai I, bad boy, have wiitten soV 

What have 1 done? Well, sure enough 

I've torn that letter into bits ; 
To tell the truth 1 meant a bluff — 

1 could not think of playing quits. 
I'll call and fix things up tonight 

(By Jove, I guess I'v« changed my mind I) 
And those lines — if she treats me right — 

Will be the last lines of their kind. 



KEQUIES VENIET 



O waiting soul, 
Sweet rest will come. 
The clangint' bell a knell will toll; 
The cares that form this mundane life, 
Its myriad sorrows and its strife ; 
Its aches of heart, of hand, of brain ; 
Its hopes uufructified, its pain. 
Will cease at last and eyes that weep 
Will close their lids in dreamless sleep. 
The clatigiiig bell a knell will toll 
And rest will come, 
waiting soul. 



56 

A FORTUNATE FLOWER. 

Violet, 
That pales the roses — 

Violet, 
Each glance discloses 
Rich simplicity. Before you 
Floweret ne'er so beauteous. O'er you 
Kisses linger. I adore you, 
Violet 

Yet were you the plainest child 
Of some nook in forest wild. 
Ignorant of tender care, 

Nurtured by the rain and dew. 
Dallied with by wanton air. 

Canopied by heaven's blue, 
Or the vine-hung branches green 
Waving proudly free between, 
Not less dearly would I love you, 
Not less warm the lips above you, 
Violet. 

Other ne'er so sweet before you — 
Lucky violet ! She wore you ! 



57 



THE GRAVE IN FHE FOREST. 

Alone in a forest I vvalkM one day — 

A forest in the ^Vest — 
Where vines grew thick and dead twigs lay 
And d^nse green leaves o'erspread the way 
Where solitude so grim, yet grand, 
Held sway with solemn, beauteous hand, 
And winds so wierd my temples fan n'd, 

I feared to pause and rest. 

And on I walk'd in the lonely wood 

That hid the setting sun ; 
And grander grew the s«:litude. 
As father stiil I dared intrude. 
My uncheck'd thoughts ran wild and free, 
And Melancholy walked with me 
By mountain stream and rock and tree 

Ere yet the day was done. 

Behind we left the measured sound 

Of the Willamette's flow, 
Until we stood beside a mound 
Amid the briars that grew around, 
And 'neath the grass so greeji and wild, 
By weary traveler undefiled. 
Whose hand it was the rude earth piled 

I did not — do not — know. 

Above the head that slumber'd there — 

Drooped low a mountain rose ; 
No column pierced the balmy air; 
No sculptured urn held flowers rare ; 
No mourner trimmed the grass so rank 
That grew^ upon the long heap'd bank. 
Beneath its blades wild flowers sank 
In nature's soft repose. 



58 THE GRAVE IN THE FOREST. 

"Who slumbers here," I musing said, 

"In lonely, far-off West 
It matters not Sleep, unknown dead. 
With blossoms sweet above your head ! 
What matters your name to the world or meV 
I'll think you a wanderer, brave and free. 
And written upon your grave I see 

Words most beautiful: 'Rest' !" 

1 sadly turn'd and backward trod 

Through forest ot the West ; 
And weary footsteps press'd the sod — 
Still with the onward rush they plod. 
Oft I remember the lonely grave 
Above which Oregon branches wave 
And which spoke to me of nothing save 

Boon we sigh for — Rest. 



59 



JIGGERED. 

She's as cunning as a rabbit 

Is my dainty ingenue — 
And she has a cunning habit 

(Which 1 don't mind telling you) 
She knows everything as "jiggers" — 

Mary Jones, cats, canes and toddy, 

Everything and everybody, 
Trousers, horses, dogs and niggers 
Are by her translated ''jiggers." 

When she feels inclined to say 

In her artless, elflike way : 

''Papa's socks will soon fit Willie," 
She could never be so silly 

As to rashly mention those 

Useful garments known as hose. 
But of speech rings in some figures 
And for ''socks" she uses "jiggers." 

How to stop it I have figured, 
But must give it up — I'm jiggered ! 



A SLAVE TO HABIT. 



When I was a little chap 1 fairly used to revel 

'Mid the types and presses, for I was a printers' devil. 

Soon I learned that I must often, with a wheezy bellows. 
Blow the dust from out my case, as did the other fellows. 

There the habit grew on me ; and though I'm now a poet. 
Salary days I draw my "dust," then straightw^ay go and 
"blow" it. 



60 



RECOMPENSE. 

Let poets rave o'er last good-byes 
And lips that meet \a hen paths diverge ; 

Oi thrcbbirg hearts and tearful eyes 
That tell how inward tempests surge ; 

Time was 1 thought such tales were true, 

But 'twas not thus with me — and you. 

Your passioned clasp was warm ihafc night 

As any clasp the poets sing; 
The twinkling stars were just as bright; 

Your kisses full as sweet. The sting 
Still rankles deep when I recall 
That night Do you remember all Y 

Yet, after all, I do not care — 
Our little, romance-fraught affair 
Ends not without its brighter side, 
To- wit : Although I have no bride 
My circumstances might be worse — 
The story, hammered into verse 
And sold at such a price per line 
Will funds provide to pay for wine 
My wounded, aching heart to cheer 
(Unless, forsooth, I stick to beer). 
Ah, who a somber cloud can find 
That is not, somehow, silver lined? 
Ill is the wind that does not blow 
Somebody good. By gosh, that's so ! 



61 
RESIGNATION. 

Good-bye, sweet hope, for aye farewell, 

TooloDg I've sony:ht to cherish thee ; 
My aching, empty heart can tell 

How very much thou wert to me. 
For me no more thy rays will shine- 
Some hearts must break — then why not mine? 

Good-bye, dead hope ; sweet hcpe, good-bye ; 

No tears have I for thee to shed ; 
No foolish moisture dims my eye — 

For what are tears, since thou art dead V 
1 too, could die without a sign — 
Since hearts must break, why should not mine? 

Rest, buried hope; come not to haunt 

The heart thy falsity hath slain ; 
Come not to laugh and jibe and taunt, 

But in thy sealed tomb remain. 
Death lurks beneath such sweets as thine — 
Some hearts must break — then why not mine? 



THE PLUMED KNIGHT. 



Upc-n his bier 
Fittingly spread his Nation's banner — 
Red as the sunrise of hope ; 
White as the angel of purity ; 
Blue as the sky that met his heavenward glance ; 
Upon it, then, his shield and coat of mail 
That many an erstwhile enemy's arrow swerved ; 
His sword and spear 
And visored helmet, 
With the proud plume that ever waved 
In the front of his country's battles. 



62 



A FLIRTATION. 

You were such a little one — 
Such a dainty, frail flirtation — 

Born of folly and of fun — 

Fed on faithless admiration — 

Ended now e'er well begun — 

Such a very little one ! 

Thoup^h you're not the passion grand— 

(Which is out of fashion) yet, 
Since the time is come to part 
I'll admit you've touched my heart 

And I leave you with regret. 
Everything must have an ending 
(Foolish tears with smiles are blending- 

Never mind — I'll soon forget — 
Strange how much a heart can stand !) 
Adios, 1 kiss your hand, 

Cherished little passionette. 



63 
TWAS BUT A DREAM. 

Methought I saw, the other night, 

A wildly cheering crowd 
Which homaire did nnto a man 

Of lordly mien and proud, 
Who condescended now and then 

To smile upon the throng 
As he trod upon the roses 

VVhich his path Wvz're, strewn along. 
There were lawyers, savants, preachers 

And inventors there galore ; 
So many really famous men 

I'd never seen before 
Indeed, I saw that in the crowd, 

(Their lustre somewhat dim) 
Edison and the airship man 

Their hats took off to him. 
My curiosity aroused 

I asked the haughty one : 
''Who art thou? Prithee tell me, 

And why this homage done ?'^ 
When with a pitying glance at me 

He proudly said: '*I am 
Inventor of a car door 

The brakeman can not slam !" 



Then was I 'wakened by a jar 
That drowned the engine's scream ; 

The brakeman had pass'd through the car- 
Alas, 'twas but a dream ! 



64 



GEORGE WILLIAM CHILDS 

Correct the proof ; 

It reads: ''The printer's friend " 
Correct the proof, 
Since not aloof 

From any one who needed aid 
This good man stood ; his ready hand 
Dealt charity o'er all the land ; 

His many generous gifts betrayed 
The kingly greatness of his heart ; 
A king in wealth he played his part 

As would have graced a regal chief 

And in all hearts a real grief 

Not very often known holds sway 
That one so kind lies dead to-day. 

The printer will his service lend 

To make a change he needs must own 
Is surely due, since he alone 

Is not the only mourner near 

The noble benefactor's bier- 
Correct the proof ; 

It should read : "Everybody's friend." 



65 
"TAPS." 

The rippling river flows along beneath the summer moon ; 

Hush'd now the direful cannon's roar; the night-bird's 
dreary cnne ; 

Green boughs soft sigh above me; wierd winds {)lay on my 
brow 

All else is still as death itself, my comrade's dying now 

Within his coat of threadbare blue he thrusts his bronzed 
hand 

And says: ''I'm on tiie march, old friend, toward the un- 
known land. 

I want these buried with me." "It shall be so," I say, 

As I look upon his treasures — two tresses — gold and gray. 

The soft white clouds float slowly by the moon, now sinking 

low ; 
The tireless river still rolls on in grand, perpetual flow ; 
I hear : "You'll, tell them, comrade true, I had no fear ot 

death ; 
Tell mother dear I spoke of her unto my dying breath ; 
And tell the girl I love so well I would not have her weep — 
That 1 but did my duties well, then gently sank to sleep ; 
You'll send my saber home to themV" "Yes, Jack, old boy," 

I say, 
As tears fall down in torrents on tresses gold and gray. 

The form in blue before me is chill and silent now ; 

The damp of death is on his face, and marble white his brow 

He will not rise at bugle call or sullen cannon's roar — 

For him the reveille will sound upon another shore. 

And now a cadence floats above the field o'er-strewn with 

dead, 
Where echoed but at twilight hour full many a warlike tread — 
It is a far, faint bugle call — or 'tis dream, perhaps — 
That bears to me those knell-like notes — the soldier's re- 
quiem — taps. 



66 

''HERE'S TO YOU, TOM MOORE!" 

Here's to you, Tom Moore ; wiiene'er I am gay, 

So are you ; and when care finds a home in my breast, 
You cheer me with proverb and promise by day, 

And your melodies hill me, at nightfall, to rest. 
And when my poor heart loved as other loved never, 

You spoke for me what my own tongue could not speak ; 
Your words clothed the thoughts, which, how great the en- 
deavor, 

Were murmured alone by the tears on mv cheek. 

Whene'er heavy-hearted, des[)ondent, and w^eary, 

Soft chords from your harp find their way through the 
gloom 
That pall-like hangs low o'er a pathway full dreary — 

^. pathway full dreary that leads to the tomb. 
Your faithfulness proving you ever are near me; 

Your friendship, as stanch, Tom, come woe as come weal. 
And softly you whisper, to comfort and cheer me ; 

"Earth hath no sorrow that heaven can not heal." 



f)7 



WHERE WE WENT A-SWIMMING. 

Along the vanish'd years I gaze 

To boyhood's day ; and see 
A viiie-vvreathe(i fence ; a grassy bank; 

A waving old elm tree 
Whose boughs droop over water 

That laughed and sparkled so 
When, in the suQin.er twilight, 

W^e used to swimming go. 

When manth d wer«- the golden fields 

In evening's })urp]e fold, 
And sparkling dew-drops settled o'er 

The meadow and the wold ; 
When the farmer's patient horses 

Had to pasture plodded $low, 
Oft we gather'd there in rapture — 

There we used to swimming go. 

How delightful ! How refreshing! 

As we strok'd the cooling waves 
Sweeter not to we young farmers 

Fount where daintiest naiad laves. 
Whip-poor-W'ill's quaint music lulling; 

81owly floating with the tide ; 
Dashing, splashing, kicking, diving. 

Paddling, racing side by side. 

Glorious pastime ! How we lov'd it ! 

Happy theme of days gone by ! 
To recall its joys supernal 

Brings the moisture to my eye. 
'Tis the same old elm that's waving 

O'er the water to and fro — 
Scarcely changed that cosy haven 

Where w^e used to swimming go. 



68 WHEEE WE WE^T A- SWIMMING. 

I could ask no kindlier favor 

Than again to frolic there 
In the sparkling, laughing water — 

In the fragrant summer air; 
Than to tread the bank so grassy ; 

Hear the twittering birds siug low, 
At that paradise of boyhood 

Where we used to swimming go ! 



LOVE'S AMBUSCADE. 

O, love hath reared a favorite shrine, 

Where tryst at eve the country lovers; 
'Tis there love's agents all combine 

And near-by Cupid ever hovers 
The trysling place a woodland lane 

Melodious made by birds a-singing 
Sweet madrigals; e'er hill and plain 

The echoes, fairylike, a-riui^ing; 
Soft breezes fresh from fields of grain, 

A wealth of richest fragrance bringing ; 
The cricket's never-ending tune ; 

With silvery radiance a-shining 
Through leafy boughs a glorious moon ; 

All these their myriad charms combining — 
All these — a night in beauteous June — 

Two hearts for love's enchantment pining — 
Unseen upon the perfumed air 

Within bow-string drawn sly Cupid hovers- 
Lovers forces lie in ambush where 

Do tryst at eve the country lovers. 



69 
ONLY A bRAKEMAN. 

Awful the shock when the engiDes met; 

All was terror, coDfusion, diu ; 
None who saw it vvill e'er forget 

The picture that daylight ushered in. 

Shattered fragments of iron and steel, 

Splintered wood and battered brass 
Mingled with broken rod and wheel 

And someone's blood stained the wayside grass 

Someone's body, all crushed and torn, 

(■overed with wound, bereft of breath, 
Was found 'neath the wreck ; the jacket worn 

Told how a brakeman had met his death. 

Someone wept when the news was borne ; 

Someone mourned o'er the mangled dead, 
In line of duty from someone torn — 

Yet ''only a brakeman," the papers said. 

Sadly they buried him 'neath the sod, 

Then took the crape from the cottage door ; 

Over a grave the roses nod — 

The grave of a brakeman whose run is o'er. 



70 



SUSPICION. 

Envied — blest — 

The stamp she press'd 
Upon the corner of my letter- 
That is, I guess'd 

So ; and, at best, 
Did anyone know any better? 

Thinking this. 

My pretty miss, 
Whose praises bards might well have sung, 

You know 'twas bliss 

For me to kiss 
The favor'd stamp that touch'd your tongue 

But, ah ! A shadow falls athwart 
That ray of joy so bright — oh, horror ! 

The mere suspicion chills my heart — 
Perhaps the old man stamped it for her ! 



71 



REX EST MORT. 

The king is dead. A funeral p^ll 

Upon a nation casts its gloom. 
Within the 'blazoned palace wall 

Reigns now the silence of the tomb. 
Around a bier do courtiers mourn ; 

Bells toll and many a prayer is said ; 
In wliispered tones o'er Spain is borne 

The direful news: The king is dead. 

The king is dead. On foaming steed 

He never led a bloody charge. 
He never saw his subjects bleed 

In battle on their monarch's barge. 
But when the pestilential air 

Spread pain and sorrow o'er the land — 
And death — Alfonso, too, was there, 

To lend a ready helping hand. 

The warrior monarch lives in fame 

And myriad throats his praises sing 
But full as great Alfonso's name 

His grateful subjects mourn their king. 
All honor to the knightly man 

Who bares his breast in rightful strife, 
But greater far the king who can 

Be full as brave in daily life. 



72 

THE POPULIST. 

"It's wonderful how |:iopular sh^'s ^ittin' ev'r3^where/' 

Said Captain Jasper Wayback as he reined his sorrel mare 

Beside the deacon's carryall to tell him of a trip 

To Hiawatha. "Ah/^ said he *'weVe ^ot 'em on the hip; 

The populists is bound to win ; 'pears like a reg'lar boom 

Is sweepin' over all the land Old parties read their doom 

As shore's you're a livin' man We're campin' on their trail — 

With Mary 'Lizabeth to lead there ain't no word like 'fail' 

Why, out in Kansas City, sir, and in St. Louis, too 

(I stopped off there to see my darter Ann as I cum' through), 

They're goin' wild about her; why, I m ready to aver 

In both o' them are cities they jist fairly worship her. 

It showed as plain as plain can be that these had times'll cease 

To see on nearly every house a sign which says 



*FOR LEASE." 



AN OLD TIMER TALKS. 

It happened in Nebraska, 

In a little, lonely town, 
Where, gazin-;r o'er the prairie 

Until the sun went down, 
You could not see a single knoll ; 

Sod houses, just a few ; 
And gray clouds of a stormy sky 

Obscured the heaverily blue. 

The show — 'twas not a big affair — 

Got in town late that day; 
And business -Ah, I see you're 'on' — 

The boys weren't ve-ry gay. 
The manager had ceased to smile — 

His troubles were too much — 
The secret spring youVe heard about 

Was stranger to his touch. 

We put up at the one hocel — 

And 'twas a 'yaller' place — 
Kei>t by an aged pioneer 

With wrinkled, kindly face. 
Whose dame was cook and chambermai(] 

A 'coon' did general work ; 
The three in turn were seen behind 

The register, as clerk. 

Among the jays that hung around 

There was a likely lad 
Whose form was stout and chubby, 

But whose face was pale and sad. 
I'd say he was 'bout eleven, and 

A bright young chap was he, 
Though we might not have noticed it 

Had nothing happened — seeV 



74 AN OLD TIMER TALKS 

We chewed ; then got the stage ia shape — 

'Twas not a stage at all — 
I mean that we hung our curtains in 

One end of a chairless hall ; 
And then by^getting some planks and keys 

(Procured with *'comps,'' you know) 
We found ourselves in readiness 

To give^our bloomin' show. 

^Ve always got a kid or two 

To help around the stage 
( When I look back to that lonely night 

All's plain as a printed page) 
And on this night we got the boy 

Who looked so quite forlorn — 
The same one that had followed us 

Up town that very morn. 

There weren't many in our gang, 

Eight people formed the band — 
Our man who walked the rope was good — 

The finest in the land. 
We stretched his wire as usual, 

Though prospects seemed quite blue 
Then stood outside the gloomy hall 

And played the blue book through. 

At last^a guy or two went in, 

But, my ! they came so slow 
That for a while we had great fears 

That there would be no show. 
But when the hour of eight rolled 'round 

The hall was nearly full 
And the manager he was the same way, too, 

A good one, ain't it, cull? 



AN OLD-TINKR TALKS. 75 

We never failed to please the jays ; 

We did it that night, too ; 
But everything had been attached 

We found when the show was through. 
And wdiat the deuce could next be done 

I'll own 1 didn't know, 
But 'tw^as a case of 'hustle' 

None had a place to go. 

The 'trouper' must be up to snuflf ; 

We straightway gave a ball, 
As soon as the show was over, 

Right there in the self-same hall. 
We charged two bits a couple 

But dancers there were few, 
And when the last of them had gone 

What else was there the to do? 

*Twas no use whining o'er it, 

We'd all been th^re before, 
So we laughed and joked while the creditor 

As sentinel guarded the door. 
I played some tricks (»n that kid, you know. 

And the gang stood 'round the while 
And laughed ; while the boy w^ould feebly try 

To keep on his face a smile. 

Our 'human serpent' did a trick. 

And said : "Do that, young man," 
He tried and failed, then said with pride 

"But then my sister can," 
And when we laughed at \^hat he said 

His blue eyes opened wide 
His dirty fists next sought his eyes 

And that yountr fellow cried. 



76 AN OLD-TIMER TALKS. 

We didn't expect him to do tliat, 

Nor meant to sorely tease, 
And Song-aud-Daure says : ''why, what's this? 

Now, don't cry, Johnny, please; 
What's up young fellow V tell us all ; 

Say, w^hat's the racket now?" 
Then spoke some other cheering words, 

And stroked the throbbing brow. 

The young chap told his story ; 

His folks were very poor; 
He'd only his mother and sister 

And these, he told us more, 
Lived down at the town of Kt^arney 

A hundred miles or so; 
He wanted to make some money, 

And ''couldn't he join the show?" 

Not a bite he'd eaten that long, long day — 

I soon can tell you the rest — 
Pight there we proved a human heart 
* Lives in a show^man's breast. 

We 'benefitted' him at once — 

Dressed in a 'queer' clown suit 
He turned flip flaps and somersaults 

And stood on his head, to boot. 

The gang cried out a ' bravo !'' 

He took a strong encore, 
And in response he tried a jig. 

Though he'd never tried it before, 
And then McGlone passed round his hat — 

A battered, glossless tile — 
And every sucker with the troupe 

Chipped in from his meagre pile. 



AN OLD-TIMER TALKS. 

The boy was tickled 'must to death. 

And well do I recall 
The tace of the waiting creditor 

At the other end of the hall, 
As he put a dollar in the hat 

And said; ''Well, I'll be blamed!— 
Wouldn't thought that of a showman — 

Gentlemen, I'm ashamed 

"To think the way I've acted — 

Hight now I'm a different man ; 
Go take your traps and do your best 

And pay me when you can 
I know the best of people 

Are likely to get stuck" — 
And as he opened the door he said : 

"Good bye; I wish you luck !" 

To make it short: The landlord said 

He needed such a boy, 
And £o he was adopted 

And 'tis a souice of joy 
For me to look back to those days 

As this o'er- true yarn [ tell 
And remark — I'll see you later — 

There goes the dinner bell ! 



78 



WIDOWHOOD. 

I wait for the boatman ; the night air is chill 

And raindrops are sullenly falling; 
The stars all are hidden ; the night bird is still ; 
The river's sad murmurs my yearning ears fill ; 
With a sigh for the touch that will ne'er again thrill 

I wait for the ferryman's calling. 

I gaze o'er the water and nothing I see 
ISave dim lights amid the gloom shining. 

They waver and struggle as if to be free — 

They waver — they struggle — Oh, what can they be ? 

They pale and they brighten— but come not to me 
Who waits for the boatman, repining. 

It is not the dread of the journey, I own, 
That pain in my sad heart is keeping ; 
I heed not the raindrops the cold wind has blown 
Upon my tired face ; T keep back a moan 
Because I am waiting alone — all alone — 
While others have crossed and are sleeping. 



79 



CAMILLE.! 

The heartless world kuows little what you feel 
When you at last are all alone — alone — 

It wots not of the memories that steal 
Upon the heart above which jewels shone 

Only an hour ago Now, in the dark, 

You drift as castaway from some frail bnrk 

And see no aid Your doom you m irk, 
Camille 

What hope poor ^irlj is yours V Some wound ne'er heal 
The cruel world don't let them. It will spurn 

You evermore. Your friends are friends in weal 
Aside from you they yet will coldly turn, 

And you alone your throbbing brow will hold 

And ask in vain their erstwhile lavished gold — 

Ask and be spurned, when you grow old, 
Camille 

Into the path that leads where sweet bells peal 
Who tries to turn your weary, wayward feet? 

Poor child of fate ! your direful doom they seal, 
Then tell of heaven and of salvation sweet. 

Who of airthese would sit beside you ? 

Who of these saints would not deride you V 

They think it is enoUiJ:h to hide you, 
Camille. 



80 

THE OLD SWEET SONG. 

Thy theme is old as earth itself— 

All history's pages do Dot tell 
Of time when Cupid— winged elf — 

Did not his willing victims fell. 
^The scroll of time hath never shown 

The day that did not feel thy beams 
And many a favored soul hath know^n 

The bliss that through thy soft glance fleams. 
Thy theme divine, so sweet, so true, 
riiough old as time is ever new ! 

For age on age since earliest time 

The bard to thee hath tuned his lyre 
And sung thy praise in simple rhyme 

And glowing, classic words of fire. 
And still the poets sing thy praise— 

A w^orld still listens to eacli note — 
And echoes many a heart the lays 

That from the harp inspired float. 
For though so old. Love, good and true, 
Thy honeyed tale is ever new ! 

Unworthy of thy song my voice — 
Unworthy I to lisp thy name — 

Enough it is, and I rejoice, 
To feel within my heart thy flame. 

Let others court the muse for thee. 

And worship with their harps more grand, 

Glad am I e'en thy slave to be- 
To feel the magic of thy wand. 

Yet fain Td sing, O, goddess true, 

Thy old sweet song forever new ! 

O, what would we poor mortals do 
Without that old song ever new ! 



81 



THE COASTER. 

I. 

This Qian who with a smiiing face 

And merry, ringing laugh, 
And bob-sled following behind, 

Doth pause and give you chaff 
About the coasters gliding down 

The hill of beaten snow% 
This is the merry, merry man 

Who would a-eoasting go. 

II 

This man with bandage o'er his eye, 

Who walks with crutch and cane, 
With arm in sling and patched-up nose, 

Who moans as if in pain, 
Who swears when asked about the hill— 

The hill of beaten snow — 
This is the merry, merry man 

Who would a-coasting go. 



82 

WHEN LIBERATI PLAYED. 

When me and Kuhnel Slaughtah and 

The kahnel's brother Bill 
Were 'tendin' fed'ral cohtlast Apreel 

Down at Louieville 
The kuhnel says to me and Bill : 

*'l motion that we go 
And pass aw^ay an hour or two 

A-takin' in some show " 

Then I remarked a ballet show 

A propter void would fill, 
And so did Kuhnel Slaughtah and 

The kuhnel's brother Bill. 
And so we all went down the street 

And bought three parkay cheers — 
First stoppin' in to have a drink 

Or two at Rassinier's. 

We found we'd struck a concert ; not 

A reg'lar show at all — 
And Bill he made a motion that 

We up and leave the hall. 
But after some discussion we 

Desided that we'd stay, 
When the usher told us Signor 

Liberati was to play. 

The signor brought his bugle out — 
It looked like real gold — 

Then turned to his musicianera 
And waved a stick as bold 

As if he was a brigadier- 
Soon we were glad we strayed 

By chance into the theatre 
Where Liberati played. 



WHEN LIBERATI PLAYED. 83 

The first piece was chuck full of notes 

Tliat run all up and down, 
And made me think of Morg Adair, 

The bugler in our town ; 
And after he had finished it 

Folks clapped until the dome 
Of that hall shook. And then he gave 

Us "Old K-ntucky Home " 

But still they wouldn't let him go. 

They kept a-wantin' more — 
I wondered how on earth he kept 

His lips from settin' sore- 
He played us '*Bonny Bessie," Oh, 

The music that he made ! 
I never will forget the night 

That Liberati played. 

And then he struck up "Dixie," 

And as the pure notes swelled, 
I got right up upon my cheer 

And yelled, and yelled, and yelled, 
Until the echo seemed to shake 

The whole of Louieville — 
And so did Kuhnel Slaughtah and 

The kuhners brother Bill. 

There's nothin' like a simple theme 

To reach a person *s heart 
And bid from out their slumbrous cells 

Sweet sentiments to start ; 
The pure impressions made that night 

From mine w^ill never fade — 
'Twill thrill whenever I recall 

How Liberati played. 



84 



BEREFT, 

There is gold in the sunbeam; the fountain at play 

Reflects all its splendors in colors most gay ; 

The robins are piping their songs in the trees, 

And the fragrance of blossoms makes heavy the breeze- 

The fragrance of blossoms and roses so red— 

What are these to the mother whose baby is dead? 



85 
I CUT THE CARDS. 

With profuse apologies to tlie author of 'T Cut the Corn."] 
1 cut the cards; the other fellow deals; 
Adown the passageway there softly steals 
The languorous music of a dago band ; 
1 hold four kings — a very goodly hand — 
Hi:;! raking in the pot the game retards — 
I only cut the cards. 

The gilded gan.bling joint in which I sit 
I-'or court of richest nabob well is fit ; 
I see a tawny waiter serving drinks 
With countenance as stoic as a sphinx ; 
The stuff he serves would kill at forty yards — 
I only cut the cards. 

I only cut the cards — a triflinjj: spell 
After I ante up. It does beat — well, 
Trade will keep up. It really is a sin 
How some fool chumps their boodle will blow in 
By Jove ! The theme is worthy of the bards — 
I only cut the cards. 

To give to stanza four the proper boost 
A fair-haired maiden must be introduced ; 
Likewise, a lover for her. Understand 
That in this game they right here take a hand. 
Thanks — don't mind if I do. Here's my regards — 
I only cut the cards. 

To make this pretty parody complete 
Somebody must be slain. I can't be beat 
At killing folks in rhyme. I boldly dare 
To kill 'em oflf in gobs. I do not care 
How red with gore my verses — do I, pards? 
I onlv cut the cards. 



86 



OPPORTUNITY. 

Fair, tall and limber-limbed, behold, she waits 

Beside the stony path o'er which I wend 
My anxious way, and gaily indicates 

By beckoniniiS and smiles my jouriiey's end. 
By signs slu- tells me that the joys I seek 

Await me there. With energy anew 
And hope's fresh flush upon my faded cheek, 

'Mid cruel thorns and noxious weeds and rue 
I struggle on that I may call her mine 

E'er she depart as oft she hath before ; 
That full into my own her e> es may shine ; 

That 1 may clasp her close, all sorrows o'er. 
But w^hen I reach the spot whereon she stood 

No answering word or tou«*h is mine to know ; 
All echoless, from gray and lonely wood 

Cold, cheerless, cutting winds upon me blow. 
I weep as I recall her many charms 
And fold, ambitioriless, my empty arms. 



THE ALL SIGHT CLUB. 

Oh, the All Night Club is an all-right club 

Tliat meets — no matter where — 
With its Faitiiful Fool or its Daffy Dub 

Or its Chief Champ in the chair. 
Whichever it be his word is law — 

Be he Fool or Chump or Dub— 
VVht-n it polishes up its loving cup 

Look out for the All Night Club. 

There's an Outer Guard and an Inner Guard, 

Though neither has much to do ; 
There's the Potent Prince and the Piggly Par( 

And the Beggarly Bugaboo; 
Tliere's th?- Mighty Mick of the Mystic Mug 

And the Lovable Lord of Luck — 
\Vhen he reports to that gang of sports 

His duty's to chase the duck. 

Then here's a health to the All Night Club 

Tliat meets — no matter where — 
With its Fool and Chump and Daffy Dub 

And its Chaser Away of Care 
No trumpet flourish marks its meet 

Nor drum with rub-a-dub-dub, 
But when it digs up its loving cup 

Look out for the All Night Club, 



88 



CLEAR THE TRACK. 

When the train of truth pulls slowly out 

It has the right of way ; 
All trains that it may chance to meet 
Are doomed to wreck and dire defeat. 
Once started truth caunot turn back, 
And truth has started— clear the track ! 

When you see the train of truth pull out- 
No matter what men may say — 
'Twill never stop. When it seems to sleep 
^Tis rolling along. Though the way be steep 
'Twill reach the heights and be seen of men 
Who, somehow, could not see it when 
It toiled its way through mud and mire, 
No guide but truth's own signal fire- 
Once started truth cannot turn back, 
And truth is coming — clear the track ! 



89 
THE CANDIDATE. 

He ran for office; and, alack, it really was a sin 

That one who had ''a perfect cinch" at last should fail to win. 

His head is big to bursting; His appetite is gone; 

And so his ^'boodle" is; and more, his diamonds are in 

pawn ; 
The shoutintr of his rival's gang grates harshly on his ear ; 
He swears he's done with politics for many a long, long year ; 
He murmurs oft a wicked word beginning with a ''d," 
For ''one of his legs is longer than it really ought to be." 



AFTER THE ELECTION. 

Of all sad words heard round the town 

The saddest are these : "Dey t'run me down.*' 



90 

THE RED MEAL TICKET. 

Say, Jim, do you remember, before we made our pile, 
That little chop house kept by what's his nameV 

He fixed no fancy dishes and he didn't put on style, 
Hut for solid grub he got there, just the same. 

After puttin* dow^a a dinner that deserves all kinds o' prai«e 

And costs an even fiver at a clip, 
My mind it goes a wanderin' to those hungry, hustlin' days 

And the red meal ticket owned in partnership. 

The firm, though, never kept no books. Whichever had the 
coin 

Would buy a ticket once a vveek or so ; 
And we'd have our cup o' coffee and a bit o' tenderloin 

If we'd happen to run out o' ready dr>ugh. 

Now, since that all is over, and we have made our pile, 
And can fill our faces full of wine and game, 

I recall that red meal ticket. Oh, we didn't put on style 
But we seemed, somehow, to tret there just the same. 



91 



MAIDEN OF BUCKEYELANI) 

Here's to you, maiden of Buckeyeland, 
Jiosy your clieek and soft your hand, 
Cherry your lips, your eyes how blue, 
Tresses of daintiest golden hue ; 
Yours are we ever to command, 
Beautiful maiden of Buckeyeland. 

Here's to ynu, maiden of Bufkey eland. 
Child uf a commonwealth more than grand ! 
Gentle ^ou^' voice as the wand'ring breeze 
Which bends the boughs of our buckeye trees 
Yours are we ever to command, 
Beautiful maiden of liuckeyeland. 



92 



EUGENE FIELD. 

An angel stands at the Dream-Ship's helm, 

An angel stands at the pro-v, 
And an angel stands at the Dream-Ship's side 

With a rue-wreath on her brow. 

—From one of Eugene FieWs later poems, 

As ooward the ghostly Dream-Ship sailed 

An angel wreathed with rue 
Tost forth a dream of dreamless rest, 

That fell with the morning dew. 

A dream of a land that mortal eye 

Never, perchance, may see ; 
Where pain and sorrow are never known, 

A land of mystery. 

It floated avvay from the Dream -Ship's side 

The mists of morning through, 
And tears are in a nation's eyes — 

For the dream that came wa-^ true. 



FINIS. 



INDEX. 



A Flirtation <)2 

A Fortunate Flower 56 

A Memory 41 

A Protest 13 

A Slave to Habit 59 

A Song of Bohemia 37 

A Sweet, Sad Story , 20 

At Eventide 46 

After the Election 89 

After Thirty Years 34 

An Old Man's Reverie 24 

An Old-Timer Talks 72 

An(>ther View 19 

Awav Off 25 

Bereft 84 

Bell of the Kearsarge 38 

By Your Couch Last Night 88 

Camiile 79 

Caspar Collins 43 

Clear the Track 88 

Confidence 49 

Daddyism 15 

93 



INDEX. 

Enchanted , ; 42 

Encouragement ,, ... . 11 

Esca}>e 12 

Establisliiiig a Piecedent , 17 

Eugene Field. 92 

Faith 40 

Fate 29 

George William Childs 64 

Haunted 45 

Heard in Heaven , 39 

Here's to You, Tom Moore 66 

Hope's Message 42 

I Cut the Cards 85 

In a Pawnshop 47 

Ingenue „.,..... 25 

In the Apache Country .- 36 

I'm Sorry You're Going A^^ay 49 

Jiggered 59 

Love's Ambuscade .c.. 68 

McClellan's Farewell 35 

Maiden of Buckeyeland , 91 

Moods 31 

My Route Book 51 

Not a Good Saddle Horse 29 

Old Whiskers . .. 26 

On the Stage and Off. 28 

Only a Brakeman 69 

Opportunity.. 86 

94 



INDEX. 

Recompense 60 

Refuge 14 

Regret 14 

Rex Est Mort 71 

Requies Veiiiet 55 

Resignation 61 

Rosina Vol<es.... 39 

Shooting the Chutes , 30 

Suspicion 70 

Taps 65 

Texan Autumn 36 

'Tvvas But a Dream 63 

Two Truths 23 

The All Nightclub 87 

The Backward Look 30 

The Candidate 89 

The Coaster 81 

The Country Newspaper 10 

The Echo ,. 46 

The End of the Season 18 

The Female Compositor 41 

The Grave in the Forest 57 

The Hermit Beech 15 

The Hoss That Couldn't Lose 28 

The Last Lines 54 

The Old Stone Chimney 16 

The Old, Sweet Song 80 

The Plumed Knight 61 

95 



INDEX. 

The Populist 72 

The Rancher's Daughter 33 

The Road From Long Ago to Now 19 

The Red Meal Ticket 90 

Under the Old Flag 53 

Valentine 52 

Vulnerability 50 

Widowhood 78 

William Proposes ^. 24 

Witliout Thy Smile 23 

When Gran'pap Lit His Corn Cob Pipe 10 

Whea Liberati Played 82 

When Me and Mike Wuz on the Force 26 

When Other Lips 48 

When Hove Wuz a Pup , ,. 9 

Where We Went A-Swimming 67 

96 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



■■■I 



015 971 941 8 



